


Culture Shock

by kappamaki33



Series: Culture Shock 'Verse [1]
Category: Battlestar Galactica (2003)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Crack, Gen, Humor, Multi, Season/Series 04, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-04-09
Updated: 2011-10-09
Packaged: 2017-10-08 19:53:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 14,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/78964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kappamaki33/pseuds/kappamaki33
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Crack.  Starbuck's magic Viper needle leads the Fleet to modern-day Earth.  And the Colonials thought learning to live with the Cylons was hard...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. First Contact, or CosPlay (Ensemble)

**Author's Note:**

> Normally, I'll post one chapter at a time, but the first two chapters are mainly set-up and therefore aren't representative of the series as a whole. Chapter 3 looks much more like what Chapters 4 through12 will be. Some familiarity with the original 1970s BSG series is necessary to catch a few of the jokes, though you definitely don't have to know it well--I've never actually seen a whole episode myself. Special thanks to [](http://safenthecity.livejournal.com/profile)[**safenthecity**](http://safenthecity.livejournal.com/) for letting me steal her brilliant Cylon paternity episode of _Maury_ for Chapters 2 and 12. (Original is [here](http://community.livejournal.com/gaeta_squee/329762.html?thread=2692898#t2692898).)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This fic will eventually have 12 chapters, and there are lots of side-stories, extras, and deleted scenes that belong to this 'verse. Some familiarity with the original 1970s BSG series is necessary to catch a few of the jokes, though you definitely don't have to know it well--I've never actually seen a whole episode myself. Special thanks to [](http://safenthecity.livejournal.com/profile)[**safenthecity**](http://safenthecity.livejournal.com/) for letting me steal her brilliant Cylon paternity episode of _Maury_ for Chapters 2 and 12. (Original is [here](http://community.livejournal.com/gaeta_squee/329762.html?thread=2692898#t2692898).)

 

“We have arrived…at Earth.”

 

The CIC erupted in cheers. Adama hugged Roslin for a long time, reveling in how nice, how right, everything felt, until he saw Lee jump up on the console and start stripping. That seemed like a rather inappropriate response to finding Earth. It was a testament to how happy he was that Lee’s behavior only made Adama embarrassed rather than angry, and he even forgot that embarrassment when Lee hopped down and embraced him.****

After collecting himself and giving his crew a few more much-deserved moments of celebration, Adama boomed over the din, “We have work to do! Mr. Gaeta, send out the three Raptors for the recon mission we discussed.”

 

“Yes, sir,” Gaeta said, turning to his station as Lieutenant Hoshi jogged across the CIC back to communications.

 

Roslin smoothed her skirt, regained her professional demeanor, and asked, “Admiral, you’re sure they can’t see the Fleet’s current position from Earth?”

 

“I’m not sure, but jumping in behind the gas giant in this system was our best bet,” Adama responded, checking a print-out. “If they’re as advanced as the Colonies were before the fall, they’ll have covered a blind spot like this. But if not, it might work.”****

“Sir,” said Lieutenant Hoshi, “the Raptors are picking up all sorts of wireless signals.”

 

“Can they tell what they’re saying?” asked Adama.

 

“What are likely the military frequencies are all scrambled, sir, but they say they’re picking up a lot of random chatter in Standard Colonial, and…did you say Old Sagittarian, Skulls? And Old Sagittarian, sir.”

 

“Have the Raptors patch it through to you and see if you can make any sense out of it, Lieutenant,” said Adama. Then he called out to a private, “Help Lieutenant Dualla set up a second wireless feed.  Dee, see if you can translate any of the Old Sagittarian transmissions.”

 

Adama walked over to the communications station, Roslin and Lee following on his heels. “What have you got, Lieutenant?” asked Adama.

 

Hoshi shook his head and shrugged, defeated. “They’re speaking Colonial Standard all right, but I can’t make heads or tails of what they’re talking about on any of the frequencies.”

 

“Just tell us what you hear, Lieutenant,” said Roslin.

 

Hoshi looked at Adama for approval; the Old Man nodded. “Yes, ma’am.” He repeated what he heard over the wireless to Lee, Roslin, and Adama, clicking the dial to a new frequency each time they shrugged or shook their heads in incomprehension. “Sunny days, sweepin’ the clouds away; on my way to where the air is sweet! Can you tell me–Lucy, you got some ‘splainin’ to do—Now I ain’t sayin’ she a gold digger, but she ain’t messin’ wit’ no—If you’re having problems with hard water build up, soap scum, ring around the toilet, then you need Kablam! Spray Kablam on a shower door—Science Friday, with your host Ira Flatow. Today, we’re talking with Mr. John Samson, a researcher at Princeton University, and Ambassador Gillian Muir, former head of the U.S. delegation to the latest round of nuclear testing talks with Russia, India, Pakistan, and several other nuclear powers. We’re discussing nuclear security, the Reliable Replacement Warhead program, and the development of the next generation of nuclear weapons.”

 

Four pairs of eyes widened, and Adama motioned for Hoshi to stay tuned to that station. Adama, Roslin, and Lee turned away to conference while Hoshi listened to the wireless and took notes.

 

“Thank you for not saying ‘I told you so’ for convincing me to send out a recon instead of jumping in right above Earth,” Adama said, mainly to keep from giving Lee any opportunity to say “I told you so.”

 

“We still don’t know much at all about Earth,” said Lee, “just that at least some people there speak Standard Colonial—thank the gods—and that they have nukes, which isn’t all that surprising.”

 

“Well, we’re going to have to make contact with them eventually, somehow,” said Roslin. “Funny how we never really planned for this part. I was supposed to be dead by this point, but I don’t know what you two have for an excuse.”

****

Adama sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose.

 

After much discussion and a conference call with the baseship, they decided the best course of action was to make limited face-to-face contact as soon as possible, since sending out a wireless signal might give away the Fleet’s position and give the people on Earth with nukes too much time to get nervous and trigger-happy. Starbuck recommended they jump one Raptor low into the planet’s atmosphere, the way they had during the rescue mission to Caprica, and from there on out hope for the best. Athena and Starbuck piloted the Raptor, and the Admiral, President, and Lee all felt it was their personal duty to make first contact, so they rode along. D’Anna accompanied them as the representative for the Cylons.

 

Starbuck’s plan was a good one. All went smoothly until they realized they’d jumped in over a metropolitan area rather than sparsely inhabited territory, which had been their goal, and a malfunctioning thruster forced them to land in a parking lot.

 

By the time Athena opened the hatch, a large and oddly attired crowd had gathered around the Raptor. Each person exited the Raptor with his or her hands up, expecting to be met with weapons, or at least with fear. Much to their surprise, though, they were mainly met with applause.

 

“Those are the most impressive CosPlayers I have _ever_ seen,” one person at the front of the crowd commented.

 

“They can’t be amateurs—amateurs couldn’t have modified a helicopter like that,” said the man beside her. “I still can’t figure out how the hell that thing works.”

 

“Besides, why would anybody put that much work into a fandom nobody recognizes? Because at least _I_ have no clue who they are,” said a third. “I bet they’re a special promotion for a new movie or something. Even so, it’s _awesome_.”

****

“Do any of you have any idea where we are?” asked Roslin, smiling at the crowd and waving, hoping they’d take the gesture as friendly and non-threatening.

 

“I see a banner on the building over there—it looks like it says ‘Welcome to VancouviCon,’ but—sorry, not a clue,” answered Lee, following suit and copying the President’s politician wave.****

“Somehow I didn’t imagine Earthlings would dress so…_foreign_,” said D’Anna, scanning the group warily.

****

“At least they’re human,” said Athena.

 

“All of them?” said D’Anna, not taking her eyes off the strange assembly. “What about that thing with the bumpy forehead wearing the yellow-and-black onesie?”

****

The applause died down, and the crowd stood expectantly, even pressing forward a little bit.

 

“So…what should we say?” asked Lee.

 

“‘We come in peace?’” whispered Starbuck, shrugging.

 

“Isn’t that kind of cliché?”

 

“Cliché or not, it’s what I’d be worried about if I were them.”

 

Roslin cleared her throat and slowly announced, “Hello, people of Earth. We have traveled very far to find you. We come in peace.”****

“See, it’s not cliché—it’s classic,” muttered Starbuck.

****

“Who are you supposed to be?” called someone in the crowd.

 

“I am Laura Roslin, President of the Twelve Colonies of Kobol. This is Admiral William Adama, leader of the Colonial—”

 

“Adama? Like from _Battlestar Galactica_?” another person in the crowd yelled.

 

The party from the Raptor all started in surprise. “Yes. How did you know we—”

 

“So if you’re Adama, where the frak is your cape?”

 

Adama glared. “_Excuse me?_”

 

For decades to come, historians would note with no little amusement how Earth’s first inter-planetary crisis nearly started over a fashion faux pas.

[   
](http://kappamaki33.livejournal.com/19398.html)


	2. Quarantine, or Refrigerator Logic (Ensemble, Feat. Gaius Baltar)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crack. Starbuck's magic Viper needle leads the Fleet to modern-day Earth. And the Colonials thought learning to live with the Cylons was hard...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some familiarity with the original 1970s BSG series is necessary to catch a few of the jokes, though you definitely don't have to know it well--I've never actually seen a whole episode myself. Special thanks to [](http://safenthecity.livejournal.com/profile)[**safenthecity**](http://safenthecity.livejournal.com/) for letting me steal her brilliant Cylon paternity episode of _Maury_ for Chapters 2 and 12. (Original is [here](http://community.livejournal.com/gaeta_squee/329762.html?thread=2692898#t2692898).)

Not too long after that, the military arrived, and things proceeded far more like a first contact should.  Since there was no real language barrier, though, the transition went far more smoothly than anyone had expected.  The initial Colonial landing party continued to communicate with Earth military and government officials after being placed in quarantine, and after a few days of tense negotiations—which became more tense but also more receptive on the side of the Earthlings once Admiral Adama described the _Galactica_’s capabilities and D’Anna mentioned that there was a _slight_ possibility they were being followed by Cavil and his posse of robots who weren’t nearly as fond of humans as she was—the Canadian government allowed most of the rest of the Fleet to land at a remote military training base in the Northwest Territories.  All but the handful of personnel necessary to man the few ships incapable of landing on a planet joined the first contact party in quarantine at the base, in addition to Boomer and Ellen, who showed up in the solar system in a Raptor about a week after the Fleet did.  The remaining ships orbited the moon for the time being.

 

Everyone agreed that life in alien quarantine wasn’t nearly as horrible as Colonial or Earth movies had depicted it, which was also possibly aided by the fact that the Colonials and Cylons had two massive, nuke-toting space warships idly circling the moon.  Of course, there was plenty of uncomfortable poking and prodding in medical examinations and endless questionnaires and interviews on Colonial culture, since the scientists weren’t exactly satisfied with the whole Thirteenth Tribe explanation in the Scrolls of Pythia.  (The Colonials quickly gleaned that Earth’s version of the Scrolls was audio-visual, was not as highly revered on Earth as it was on the Colonies, and apparently included lots of feathered hairstyles and capes.)  But even institutional food was gourmet in comparison to algae, everyone was allowed to take as many showers with as much soap as they liked, and there was even hope that they’d all get to breath fresh air again, once the scientists were satisfied the Colonials hadn’t brought any space viruses with them that would wipe out Earth’s population.

 

The Earthlings running quarantine also made sure the Colonials received the treatment they needed so they could eventually become contributing members of Earth society.  More than a few people were disappointed that Earth’s medical technology was really no more advanced than that on the Colonies, but Earth did have a few different medicines and techniques and far more supplies.  The Earth doctors started President Roslin on a different chemotherapy regime straightaway and put Lieutenant Gaeta through an intense physical therapy program, but the doctors concentrated most of their efforts on group counseling.

 

Once the Colonials had told their harrowing story of genocide and being on the run for years, the doctors had taken it as a given that many of these aliens would need counseling beyond help integrating into their new society.  However, they had been surprised at just how much emotional baggage everyone had to dig through.  For example, no one had ever counseled live murder victims before, Cylon paternity was particularly tricky (“I am _not _your babydaddy!”  “You frakking _liar!  _He’s yours!  He has your eyes!”  “Of course he does.  You frakked my whole line!”  “But you were the only one I _loved!_”  “Well, _I_ was just using you for the sex, so there!”), and Colonials had a strange propensity for manifesting their guilt in imaginary versions of dead lovers and pets.  But quarantine lasted for several months, and there wasn’t much else for the detainees to do, so they ended up working through most of their issues and coming to terms with one another as well as could be expected.

The only Colonial not included in the therapy sessions was probably the one who needed it most.  The United Nations had assembled a research team to try to unravel how aliens could be human and why they would know about “All Along the Watchtower” but not Bob Dylan or Jimi Hendrix.  So while the others in quarantine were scheduled for group and individual counseling, Gaius Baltar was asked to contribute his unique combination of firsthand knowledge of Colonial society and his many areas of scientific expertise to their studies.  Of course, Baltar couldn’t turn an offer like that down.

 

When it actually came time to present the team’s findings, though, Baltar wished he’d spent the past months being brow-beaten by Roslin, Caprica Six, and Lieutenant Hoshi in group instead, because if there was one thing he hated more that being criticized, it was looking stupid. 

 

Baltar cringed inwardly as he stood in front of about two hundred Colonials and Earthlings, mostly government and military officials and press, on the morning of the Colonials’ official release from quarantine.  The lead researcher, Dr. Devlin, had announced that she was ready to reveal all the “answers.”

 

“As you know, my colleagues and I, with the invaluable input and aid of Dr. Baltar,” Dr. Devlin said, nodding to Baltar, who winced but bowed graciously in return, “have determined that you Colonials are most definitely human.  Also, we have concluded that, with a few minor variations, such as your faster-than-light travel capabilities, your religion, and your peculiar disdain for toast—”

 

“Toasters,” Gaius corrected.

 

“—toasters, right, but as I was saying, excepting a few minor variations, the dominant Colonial culture is almost identical contemporary Anglo-American culture.”

 

Dr. Devlin stood with her arms folded over her chest and a broad, proud smile on her face.  The Colonials were at a loss as to why; they could have told her that much an hour after they stepped off the Raptor.

 

When it became apparent that Dr. Devlin hadn’t formed any intention of continuing her report, President Roslin, who was seated in the front row beside the Admiral, cut to the chase.  “So, even if both our peoples originated on Kobol as we believe and went their separate ways thousands of years ago, _why_ exactly is it that Colonial and some Earth cultures and languages share so many similarities?”

 

Dr. Devlin looked over her glasses at the assembled Colonials.  “Have any of you read _Childhood’s End_?”

 

Adama and Roslin both nodded.

 

“Good.  We had a feeling that might be another common text between our cultures.  We theorize that these seeming coincidences are the work of nearly the same principle that Clarke propounded to explain humanity’s familiarity with the appearance of the Overlords.  What both Colonials and Earthlings thought of as common threads in folklore and culture, a collective unconscious, a racial memory, if you will, is not memory of _past_ events but rather a prescient ‘memory’ of the combined culture Colonials and Earthlings will create in the _future_, of course allowing for some differences and anomalies caused by random mutations, multiphasic psychic shifting, possibly minor disturbances in the time-space continuum.  You know, the usual.”

 

Adama and Roslin sat with their mouths open.  “I don’t think we’re talking about the same book,” Roslin said slowly.

 

Having worked with Dr. Devlin for several months, Baltar knew this was as clear an explanation as she was going to give, so he took pity on the others.  “Just think of it as…psychological duct tape.”

 

Roslin half-nodded.  “Duct tape.  Okay.  Good enough for me.  Bill?”

 

“Uh-huh,” Adama said, his eyes still a little glazed.

 

“‘Psychological Duct Tape.’” mused Dr. Devlin.  “I like it.  It would make a good title.  Dr. Baltar, would you be interested in collaborating with me further, co-authoring a paper for the _Journal of Highly Plausible Improbabilities_?  I can probably even swing a stipend for you through my research grant.”

 

Though Baltar thought it highly plausible that Dr. Devlin’s scientific acumen came as much from comic books as it did from academic studies, the mention of money, the possibility of publication, and the fact that Dr. Devlin even managed to flaunt her hourglass figure under a lab coat were simply too much for Baltar to resist. 

 

“You’ve just found yourself a research partner,” he replied.

 

Most days were not quite as befuddling as the day that was supposed to clear everything up, though, thank the gods.  The reasons why this world was so similar to the one the Colonials had left turned out to not matter all that much on a practical level, and after years on the run in glorified space-faring tin cans, the practicalities of living on a new planet where they could breathe fresh air and eat real food were all that most Colonials cared about. 

 

In the end, with the help of world governments, NGOs, and especially the Gracious Earthlings for the Emigration of Colonials, or the GEECs, a coalition of science fiction fans formed by the group the first Raptor had encountered and that dedicated itself to helping the new aliens acclimate, the Colonials quickly settled into their new lives on Earth.  However, these new Earth residents still encountered their fair share of quandaries and complications.

 

  
**   
**


	3. Language (Saul and Ellen)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crack. Starbuck's magic Viper needle leads the Fleet to modern-day Earth. And the Colonials thought learning to live with the Cylons was hard...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some familiarity with the original 1970s BSG series is necessary to catch a few of the jokes, though you definitely don't have to know it well--I've never actually seen a whole episode myself. Special thanks to [](http://safenthecity.livejournal.com/profile)[**safenthecity**](http://safenthecity.livejournal.com/) for letting me steal her brilliant Cylon paternity episode of _Maury_ for Chapters 2 and 12. (Original is [here](http://community.livejournal.com/gaeta_squee/329762.html?thread=2692898#t2692898).)

Though the Canadian Government, in conjunction with the GEECs, had offered to pay airfare for anyone who wanted to relocate in North America, unlike most of the Colonials, Saul and Ellen Tigh did not immediately take them up on this generous offer.  The couple concluded they needed to engage in a little research before deciding on where they wanted to live, and they thought it only responsible to start their investigation right away.

 

So, the first thing the Tighs did upon release from quarantine was hop in a taxi and tell the driver to take them to the nearest bar.

 

Saul and Ellen were happy to see that bars looked the same everywhere.  This one was completely empty except for the bartender, so they took seats right next to him at the bar.****

“Bring us two Dirty Blue Galataeas, Barkeep,” Tigh said, tapping his fist on the bar good-naturedly and throwing his other arm around Ellen’s shoulders.  “And don’t skimp on the galven.”

 

“Uh,” said the bartender, “I don’t think I’m familiar with that drink.”

 

“Provincials,” Ellen said under her breath to Saul, rolling her eyes.  “Two Delphic Rollers would be just fine,” she said to the bartender sweetly.  The bartender just stared at her, confused.  “Delphic Rollers?  One part kal, two parts rommin, a shot of black strattilum, and a lemon twist?”

 

The bartender’s jaw hung open for a moment.  “You folks aren’t from around here, are you?”

 

“Very true,” admitted Ellen.  “They did tell us in our alien integration sessions that there would be certain cultural differences.  And my husband and I do have rather esoteric, sophisticated tastes.”

 

“Did they download a frakking dictionary into your head after you died, too?” Tigh asked, grinning but perplexed.

 

“If you folks aren’t terribly picky, let’s do it this way,” said the bartender, who was beginning to look a little nervous.  “I’ll tell you what I know how to make, and you pick one that you like.  Okay?”

 

Saul and Ellen looked at each other, smiled, and nodded.

 

“All right then.  How ‘bout a Screwdriver?”

 

“A what?” Saul asked.

 

“Or a Rob Roy?”

 

“Who?” asked Ellen.****

“Martini?” 

 

Blank stares.

 

“Red-Headed Slut?” 

 

Ellen had to bite her lip to keep from making a joke about Roslin—even she recognized it would be in bad taste, now that Roslin was bald—so she just shook her head.

 

“Fuzzy navel?”

 

Saul and Ellen both grimaced.  “Sounds like bellybutton lint,” Ellen said, sticking out her tongue.

 

“Gin and tonic,” said the bartender, his eyes lighting up.  “That’s gin, plus tonic.”

 

“What’s gin?” asked Tigh.

 

The bartender slapped his hand against his forehead.  “This isn’t going to work.”

 

Tigh’s eye went wide with horror.  “My Gods, Ellen.  What if we can’t get a mixed drink ever again?  I lived on algae alcohol for awhile, but there’s so many kinds here…it would be a shame to live on beer.”  He swept his hand, indicating the dozens of liquor bottles adorning the back of the bar.****

Ellen sighed.  “This is ridiculous.”  She hopped gracefully from the barstool and backed up against the bar, placing her hands on the countertop.  “Help me up, will you, Saul?”

 

Saul gave her a look, but he took her by the waist and helped her jump up so she was sitting on the bar.

 

“Thank you, darling.  I can take it from here.”  Ellen simpered and squealed a little bit as she spun and threw her legs over to the other side of the bar.  She jumped off and landed lightly beside the bartender, who looked worried.  He had the good sense to get out of Ellen’s way, though. 

 

Ellen rubbed her hands together, then plucked three liquor bottles from the collection.  “I think it’s high time we participated in a little cultural exchange, don’t you?”

 

Ellen set the bottles down just long enough to pull three glasses out from under the bar.  She poured a small sample from the first bottle into each of the glasses.

 

“To cultural enrichment,” Ellen said, clinking glasses with Saul and the befuddled bartender.

 

Ellen and Saul knocked back the liquor in one gulp, slammed down their glasses simultaneously, and chorused, “Rommin!”

 

“Tequila!” the bartender yelled just as happily.

 

They repeated this process with the second bottle.  “Chally!”

 

“Rum!”

 

And then, the third.  “Whiskey!”

 

The bartender stood in shocked amazement for a moment before he said, “Oh, hey, whiskey!  We call it whiskey, too!”

 

For some reason—some reason in addition to the shots of tequila and rum—finding this bit of cultural commonality made Saul and Ellen especially ecstatic.  So much so that Saul felt the need to lean over the bar to give Ellen a celebratory kiss, and Ellen felt the need to pour them all another shot of whiskey before moving on to several of the other bottles in the bar’s collection.

 

After Saul and Ellen had tested not all but a very respectable percentage of the bar’s selection—the bartender had stopped somewhere between vermouth and peppermint schnapps, switching over to merely pointing out the bottles’ labels—a sad realization stopped Ellen in mid-drunken-giggle.

 

“Wait a minute,” slurred Ellen, “where’s your ambrosia?”

 

“Our what?”

 

“Yeah, ambrosia,” said Saul, leaning heavily against the bar, even as it spun a little under him.  “You know, the bright green stuff.  Has a real kick to it, but kind of leaves you a really clear sort of drunk.”

 

The bartender thought for a moment.  “Oh, you must mean absinthe.”

 

“We must,” Ellen smiled.  “Where do you keep this absinthe?”

 

“Oh, we don’t sell it here.  It’s illegal.”

 

Saul and Ellen’s jaws dropped.  “No.  You’re kidding!” said Saul.

 

“Afraid not.”

 

“Is it illegal _everywhere?_” asked Ellen.

 

“No, no.  Every country has its own rules about that sort of thing.”  Ellen and Tigh sighed in relief.  “In fact, it’s legal in some of the other provinces, even.”

 

“Which ones?” Ellen asked eagerly.

 

“Oh, I don’t know ‘em all off the top of my head…  I think British Columbia is one of ‘em.”

 

Tigh and Ellen just stared at him, eyebrows furrowed.

 

“Nobody from outside Canada learns about Canadian provinces, do they?” the bartender said dejectedly.  “You know, Vancouver?”

 

Ellen and Saul looked at each other.  Saul bellowed, “Well, sounds like we’re movin’ to Vancouver!  Thanks for the tip, Joe!”

 

They tipped the bartender generously and went out into the night, now confident of where they’d make their new home and very happy they’d done their research before settling down.

[   
](http://kappamaki33.livejournal.com/21471.html)


	4. Mating Rituals (Dee, Racetrack, and Seelix)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crack. Starbuck's magic Viper needle leads the Fleet to modern-day Earth. And the Colonials thought learning to live with the Cylons was hard...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay--Dee, Seelix, and Racetrack were far more ornery than I expected them to be (as are Tom and Lee, though Romo, Kara, Felix, and Louis are all behaving splendidly)! Some familiarity with the original 1970s BSG series is necessary to catch a few of the jokes in the series, though you definitely don't have to know it well--I've never actually seen a whole episode myself. Special thanks to [](http://safenthecity.livejournal.com/profile)[**safenthecity**](http://safenthecity.livejournal.com/) for letting me steal her brilliant Cylon paternity episode of _Maury_ for Chapters 2 and 12. (Original is [here](http://community.livejournal.com/gaeta_squee/329762.html?thread=2692898#t2692898).)

Back in Vancouver, Dee, Seelix, and Racetrack managed to avoid the same miscommunications and confusion that plagued the Tighs by relying on the old fallback of “I’ll have whatever your having” when men offered to buy them drinks. And being three attractive, successful young single women, the trio had very little difficulty getting as plastered as they pleased when they went out for a night on the town.

 

Dee, Seelix, and Racetrack had become drinking companions long before the discovery of Earth. Near the end of the Baltar trial, the three had realized that they shared a very strong common bond: they were all very used to dumping and being dumped by _Galactica_'s finest. Racetrack finally despaired of her tragic, five-year crush on Helo; Seelix angrily gave up on catching Sam’s eye when she caught it roving over a semi-naked Tory Foster, then laughed her ass off when Tory threw Sam over for _Gauis Baltar_, of all people; and ironically, Dee’s separation from Lee gave her a newfound appreciation for drinking and sightseeing at Joe’s Bar. The trio were often joined at their regular table at Joe’s by a few brave, foolish potential suitors and, until Gaeta finally wised up, by a pining Louis Hoshi (which, incidentally, later on helped defrost some of the understandable chilliness in Gaeta and Seelix’s relationship—participating with Seelix in those more informal therapy sessions at Joe’s was excellent training to prepare Hoshi to help Gaeta through “Attempted Murder Mondays” in group therapy). Even with these visitors, though, those nights at Joe’s were really about the three of them having shoulders to cry on and, what was needed more often, a sane audience to bitch to about men’s stupidity in general and _Galactica_ males’ insanity in particular.

****

On Earth, all three had been so busy with their new jobs since their release from quarantine that this was the first night they could schedule a reunion of the old gang. Racetrack had opted to join the Canadian Forces Air Command and was as thrilled to be learning how to pilot helicopters as she was to find that her squadron was letting her keep her old Colonial callsign. The controls for Earth helicopters were surprisingly similar to Raptors, except without the jump drive, which made training a bit trickier than she had remembered. Raptor instructors had used the jump drive as a sort of emergency brake, hopping nuggets out of harm’s way whenever they were about to crash into something. Helicopters were markedly less forgiving of, say, flying too close to trees or buildings, Racetrack had quickly discovered.

 

Dee, who took her oath to the Colonies more seriously than perhaps anyone but Adama, found a unique way to remain in the Fleet without having to literally remain on _Galactica_. She was currently serving as an exchange officer at Central Command, primarily helping the militaries of North America better understand and coordinate with what remained of the Colonial military in space and vice versa. All of her combat experience translated into a quick promotion all the way up to Major, and unlike the various promotions received by officers during the journey to earth, Major Dualla actually received a corresponding raise in pay. Though for the most part, Dee was happy for ex-husband’s successes and wished him well, when she received her first paycheck, she couldn’t help but smile a little smugly and whisper to herself, “Take _that_, Lee Adama.”****

Seelix, who had decided that, as fun as social mobility was, there were ways to improve one’s lot in life that didn’t involve being locked in mortal combat on a semi-regular basis, was taking nursing classes during the day and working at a hospital for practical experience at night. Unlike Dee and Racetrack, who’d tested out the nightlife of the greater Vancouver area a few times before, this evening was the first opportunity Seelix had had to really go out. Hence, she was a bit farther behind on the learning curve of how to deal with an odd new Earth species, the Modern Canadian Male Barfly, than her drinking companions were.****

“I still don’t understand why we turned those last guys down,” argued Seelix. “Maybe they weren’t great, but they weren’t bad, either, and they _were_ offering to buy.”

 

Racetrack put a hand on Seelix’s shoulder, in part out of camaraderie and in part to steady herself. She really shouldn’t have had that blond—no, had that rum and coke thing the blond _bought_ her, she mentally corrected herself. “You’re new to this, so you don’t know how the game works, sweetie.”

 

Dee, who, of the trio, was the most selective as to whom she led on and therefore by far the most sober, nodded in agreement. “We’ve had a little more practice at this than you have. I know it’s a big change, but you’re going to have to learn to be pickier when it comes to men.”

 

Seelix leaned back on her stool, unconvinced.

 

“Let me put it this way,” Racetrack said. “How many people were in the Fleet, at its biggest? About fifty thousand, right? And let’s say half of those are men. That’s twenty-five thousand guys to pick from, and that’s counting the guys that are too old or too young or too married.” Racetrack leaned in and continued in an excited half-whisper. “There are three billion men on this planet. Three _billion_. That means no more putting up with guys whose idea of sweet talk is praising your ability to fold his undies.”

 

“We’ve gone from a fished-out puddle to the big, wide ocean,” Dee added. She smiled wistfully. “Oh, and drink specials! Bars actually have to _compete_ for business, since there’s more than one, so they have drink specials. Different ones in every bar.”

****

“We have entered the promised land, Diana, flowing with milk and honey and booze,” Racetrack said, tipping her glass to her lips and then drawing back in disappointment when she remembered in was already empty. “Though maybe we shouldn’t have caught and released those guys. Frakking shame, buying your own drink,” she grumbled. “Bartender—” Racetrack swiveled on her barstool and accidentally bumped her toe hard into the bar. “Frak!” she said at the pain. “Oh, frak, I meant to say fuck! Oh, wait—I—Gods, it’s hard to switch over to a new multi-purpose curse word. ‘Frak’ comes out almost like a reflex.”

 

Seelix nodded in sympathy. “And it’s so confusing, since there are some Earth people who use ‘frak,’ too, but not always in the way we mean it.”

****

“I know Felix was terribly disappointed when he discovered that a ‘frak party’ was just a group of people live blogging during a TV show,” said Dee.

 

Seelix took a sip of her drink and said, “Come to think of it, I haven’t seen Gaeta or Hoshi around since we all got out of quarantine.”

 

Dee smirked. “Yeah, neither have I. That’s part of why I didn’t call them to come along tonight. I believe they’re too busy…christening their new apartment to be interested in going out.”

 

“Huh?” asked Seelix.

 

Racetrack leaned in, grinning evilly. “She means they’re too busy frakking on every flat surface in their new apartment.”

 

“Ew! Gods, Maggie, why do you always have to be such a pervert?” said Seelix. “Now I’m never going to be able to have dinner at their place without thinking about… You could at least say ‘fucking’ instead of ‘frakking.’”

 

Dee said, “You think ‘frak’ sounds dirtier than ‘fuck’? I thought ‘fuck’ sounded raunchier.”

 

“No, I think I’m with Diana on this one,” said Racetrack. “‘Fuck’ has some added shock value because it’s new to our ears, but ‘frak’ is definitely the better word. You can sit on the ‘r’ and stretch it out without the word losing any of its punch, you know? Frrrak! Holding out the ‘u’ in ‘fuuuck’ just makes it sound like you’re losing steam.”

 

Before they could debate the relative merits of Earth profanities in any greater depth, three men with Figurski’s physique and Aaron Doral’s fashion sense approached them at the bar.

 

The lead lounge lizard of the three slithered up beside Seelix. “Hey there, sweet thing. Would you like a gin and platonic, or do you prefer scotch and sofa?”

 

The man grinned and actually looked a little hopeful as Seelix sat speechless, trying to figure out what the hell he was talking about. The fact that he wasn’t recovering from the sting of a slap by that point in the conversation meant things were progressing vastly better for him than usual, it appeared.

 

When Seelix didn’t answer, he struck another cocky pose and tried again. “That dress looks great on you. As a matter of fact, so would I.”

 

That pick-up line, Seelix understood. She grimaced and looked at her nearly empty glass, then grimaced even more when she looked at her potential refill source again.

 

Dee tapped Seelix’s shoulder. The girls huddled together in conference.

 

Racetrack and Dee looked at each other, engaging in a brief, silent conversation. They turned to Seelix, and Dee asked her, “Okay then, let’s see what you’ve learned. What do you think, Diana? Reel them in, or throw them back and wait for something better to bite?”

 

“We can do better,” Seelix said confidently. She glanced over her shoulder. The creep who’d spoken licked his fingers and used them to smooth out his eyebrows, smirking all the while. “Much better. The night’s young.”

 

Racetrack nodded and patted Seelix’s shoulder. “Good girl, Diana. You’re a fast learner. Would you like to do the honors?”

 

Seelix hesitated for a moment, thinking.

 

Before she turned around, the man added, “Do you wash your panties with Windex? Because I can really see myself in them.”****

Had he not made the fatal error of mentioning underwear, Seelix might have been tempted to be a bit nicer to him. Instead, she smiled evilly and bowed in her seat to Dee and Racetrack. All three turned to the men.

 

“Excuse me, sir, but which phrase do you think is more effective: ‘frak off’ or ‘fuck off’?” Seelix said sweetly.

 

Three jaws dropped. Before the befuddled men could form any response, Seelix slid off her barstool and said, “C’mon, ladies, this place is fished out.”

 

Racetrack and Dee barely suppressed their snickering as they breezed past the men, Seelix in the lead, chin held high. When they made it outside, though, all three burst into laughter, Racetrack even doubling over. She regretted that rum and coke thing again when she found herself struggling not to continue on that trajectory, nearly toppling over.

 

But she certainly wasn’t going to let a little thing like rum—or was it the coke that did that?—cut the evening short. She leaned against a building and righted herself.

 

“You know,” mused Racetrack as Seelix hailed a cab to take them to the next club, “I completely agree with our decision to toss that particular catch back, and scaring them off like that was fun, but we probably shouldn’t get _too_ picky. Because I am _not_ going to let it be said that frakking Louis Hoshi gets more action than I do.”

 

“_Fucking_ Louis Hoshi,” Dee corrected.

  


 


	5. Government (Lee, Zarek, and Tory)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crack. Starbuck's magic Viper needle leads the Fleet to modern-day Earth. And the Colonials thought learning to live with the Cylons was hard...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Zarek wouldn't behave for me until I let him flirt with the other delegates. Some familiarity with the original 1970s BSG series is necessary to catch a few of the jokes in the series, though you definitely don't have to know it well--I've never actually seen a whole episode myself. Special thanks to [](http://safenthecity.livejournal.com/profile)[**safenthecity**](http://safenthecity.livejournal.com/) for letting me steal her brilliant Cylon paternity episode of _Maury_ for Chapters 2 and 12. (Original is [here](http://community.livejournal.com/gaeta_squee/329762.html?thread=2692898#t2692898).)

On the other side of the continent, Dee’s ex was enjoying his new job just as much as Dee was hers, but Lee quickly discovered that he had a lot to learn if he was going to survive in his chosen profession.

 

  
“So as you can see, passing this resolution is of the utmost importance, and, though we politicians and delegates perhaps say it too often, _this_ resolution is truly vital, not only to my people, but to all peoples of this world. Thank you.”

 

Lee jumped at the unexpected sound of one person clapping in the otherwise empty United Nations General Assembly Hall.

 

  
“Very nice,” Tom Zarek called from his perch off to one side in the very back row. “Then again, it’s not as if I expected anything less. Speech-making always was your favorite part of the job, wasn’t it?”

 

  
Lee neatened his notes on the podium and hoped Tom couldn’t see him blushing from all the way on the other side of the room. “Doesn’t matter whether or not I like it. As the sworn representative of our people, it’s my duty to see that their needs are met, to communicate those needs clearly, eloquently, persuasively.”

 

Lee despaired a bit. He could see Tom’s smirk all the way across the room, so the distance definitely hadn’t hidden his embarrassment at getting caught practicing his speech at the front of this empty chamber that he loved so much. The mere thought of one hundred ninety-two world leaders sitting in those chairs, listening to _his_ speech, sent an excited chill down Lee’s spine. One hundred ninety-two was _so_ far superior to a measly Quorum of Twelve.

 

Admiral Adama and President Roslin had acted as the primary Colonial representatives during the quarantine; however, when the United Nations offered the Colonials a seat in the General Assembly, Roslin remembered her visions on the baseship and decided it was time to live her own life while she had the chance. As she’d said to Lee, in her view, she and the Admiral had dragged their kids kicking and screaming across the universe to Earth; now, somebody else could handle the details.

 

Lee, of course, became UN Delegate for the Twelve Colonies of Kobol, Plus Cylons. Tom had not been thrilled with getting passed over for a position of power _yet again_, but he was mollified somewhat when Lee named him the chair of the newly-formed Committee on the Welfare of Extraterrestrial Immigrants.

 

Though Tory had angled for a separate delegation for Cylons, the UN politely declined to seat any delegate who had actively, personally participated in genocide and didn’t think it was fair to limit the Cylons’ choices for a representative to five people, as this rule would have, even if they _were_ the Final Five. So, the Cylons voted for and were represented by the Colonial delegate as well, and Tory instead became Lee’s undersecretary.

 

Being an undersecretary had absolutely nothing to do with secretarial work, but Tory’s presidential aide instincts died hard. She scared off seven actual secretaries before she gave up on finding anyone who could meet her competency standards and took on those duties herself, in addition to her own. She performed all these tasks with a grace and efficiency that seemed impossible for one person alone to accomplish.

 

“I called you the day before last to go over a draft of that other human rights initiative the delegate from Austria left with Tory,” Lee said as he packed up his notes while Tom ambled down the aisle towards him. “But you weren’t in.”

 

Tom paused for a moment. “Ah, yes. I believe I was at lunch when you called.”

 

“Speaking of which, we need to reschedule with him. I’ll have Tory—”

 

“Reschedule the human rights meeting with the Austrian delegate for…Tuesday afternoon would work for both you and me, Mr. Adama,” said Tory as she stood behind Tom and Lee, typing furiously on her blackberry.

 

Both men jumped; neither had heard Tory come in, nor had they even known that she knew where they were. She walked away before either of them had a chance to comment.

 

“And I dropped by your office yesterday with some requisition forms for you to sign off on, and you weren’t there then, either,” said Lee, once he’d recovered from the mild shock.

 

  
Tom stared up at the ceiling thoughtfully, remembering. “I think I was at lunch then, too.”

 

“At nine-thirty in the morning?”

 

Tom shrugged. “They call that ‘brunch’ here, don’t they?”

 

Lee eyed Tom suspiciously. Tory had given him that same excuse the past half-dozen times he’d tried to track Tom down. It couldn’t be that Tom was trying to give Lee the brush-off, or he would’ve at least changed up his alibi on occasion. And it didn’t look like Tom was gaining weight; in fact, if anything, he was in better shape now than Lee had ever seen him in before. Besides, though everyone had gotten sick of algae, very few people coped with the variety of Earth foods by eating non-stop, at least after that first month in quarantine.

 

Lee shook his head to clear his mind. “Anyway, my obligations, at least, should slow down a bit once we get this resolution passed.”

 

“You’ve been working hard on that speech, I can tell.”

 

“I just hope it works,” Lee said, picking up his portfolio with his speech notes and walking toward the door, Tom trailing behind him.

 

“I hate to be the bearer of bad news,” Tom said in a tone that suggested he was at least a _little_ pleased at knowing something Lee didn’t, if nothing else. “But I know for a fact that you’re lacking nineteen key votes, ten of which probably won’t even be at the Assembly when you give your speech, and half a dozen others who rarely change their minds based on speeches alone.”

 

  
Lee wheeled around to face Tom, his eyes blazing with righteous indignation. “We _have to_ get this resolution through, Tom—we have no other _choice._ I can’t believe there are actually delegates who never allow themselves to be swayed by speeches. That’s their duty. It’s a frakking crime.” He muttered the last part and started to pace. Tom just folded his arms across his chest and watched, smiling.

 

  
“We’ll just have to make sure it goes through, regardless of those delegates,” Lee said, still pacing. “All I need to do is talk to the Presi—” Lee stopped walking abruptly, and his face scrunched up in consternation. His features relaxed again when another light bulb went on in his brain, and he resumed his pacing. “Well, really, it’s a military decision, so if I can just convince the Admir—” He stopped dead in his tracks again, dumbstruck. “Huh.”

 

Politics was going to be much harder than he’d thought, Lee realized.

 

“That’s democracy for you,” Tom said, barely keeping his smile from becoming a smirk as he patted Lee on the shoulder. “A wise man once said that politicians feel about democracy the way many men feel about their wives: you love her, you’d give your life for her, but gods be damned if she can’t be a bitch sometimes.”

 

“No offense, Tom, but you’re hardly one to preach about unyielding fidelity to the democratic process,” said Lee as the two left the General Assembly Hall and walked down the corridor.

 

“When the democracy herself is faithful and true, when the powerful don’t…prostitute her to entrenched aristocracies and bourgeoisie platitudes, yes, I am,” Tom said with a hint of steel in his voice. He laughed it off, though. “And anyway, I’ve turned over a new leaf. Have you heard me recommend a solution that involved explosive devices, even once? No.”

 

“Right. All _your_ solutions seem to involve ‘lunch,’” Lee said, regretting how catty that sounded as soon as he said it, but still thoroughly frustrated at how blasé Tom seemed about the future of the Twelve Colonies of Kobol, Plus Cylons.

 

“That is true,” Tom said. “I managed to get Delegate Chopra of India to change her mind about clause thirty-two, which was her big hang-up, when we chatted over salads in the commissary.”

 

Lee slowed his gait and started listening more closely. “Yeah?”

 

Tom paused, relishing in Lee’s attention. “And I convinced Delegate Oliviera that she shouldn’t be dissuaded by your youth and inexperience, when we had sandwiches at this amazing little deli down the street.”

 

“Oh.” Even though the vote was looking more and more positive, Lee’s heart still sank a little.

 

“And Delegate Byron, from London—”

 

“Let me guess: you sold her on our agenda over hotdogs from the vendor on the corner, right?”

 

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Tom said. “Gwyneth is a vegetarian. We had cheesecake.” Tom looked at his watch. “Oh frak. I missed my lunch date with Delegate Grutzmann. I’ll have to tell Tory—”

 

“Send apology note and reschedule lunch date with Delegate Ilsa Grutzmann,” Tory said. Both Tom and Lee flinched again, not having noticed Tory’s presence until she spoke. Tory didn’t even break her stride as she walked past them, adding the note to her blackberry.

 

Tom swore under his breath, but then he regained his composure. He flipped his hair back unconsciously—he was letting it grow out, it appeared. “As I was saying, it’s called networking, Lee, and it’s the key to winning in a democratic arena. Don’t worry. You’re young yet; you’ll learn.”

 

“It sounds like you seem to be networked almost exclusively with women,” Lee said.

 

“What’s that old saying: ‘Pleasure in the job puts perfection in the work’?” Tom grinned. “Plus, women just seem to like me. The US delegate—Carole Cross, a wonderful, sweet woman, though I would never want to be on her bad side—she says I look like some TV actor she and a lot of other young ladies had a crush on back when she was growing up.”

 

“Really.”

 

“Yeah. It was sort of strange, how she wouldn’t tell me what his name was or what show he was on—she just blushed.” Both pondered that for a moment, but Tom soon got them back on track. “Speaking of Carole, we still don’t have the American vote.” Tom paused and looked at Lee meaningfully. “She has a daughter about your age that she dotes on. Very smart—a doctor, does some policy work on one of the UN health committees now and then. Very pretty, recently divorced…” He let the implications hang silently in the air.

 

  
“You’re not serious,” Lee said, even though he knew Tom was.

 

“Of course, you’d have to be an absolute gentleman,” Tom said.

 

Lee sighed. “Oh, all right. If you think it’ll help, I’ll take her out to lunch. But what are we going to do if we ever need straight men to vote for our proposals?”

 

Tom thought for a minute. “Almost all the countries have at least one woman on staff. And one should never underestimate the power of an undersecretary or a well-connected committee chair,” Tom said, allowing himself a little smugness at that smooth self-reference. “We should collect a list of high-ranking staff in each delegation, with contact information. I’ll ask Tory—”

 

“I suppose I should thank you for not pimping me out to the male delegates. Okay, collect and organize names, phone numbers, and dietary concerns of all high-ranking female staff of member nation delegations. I’m on it, Mr. Zarek,” Tory said, appearing behind them from seemingly out of nowhere, again, which made Lee and Tom nearly jump out of their skins, again. She spoke without looking up from her blackberry or interrupting the steady patter of her thumbs on the keys. “The sad thing is, having worked for Roslin and, in a way, for Tigh and then Baltar as well, this really is not the most disgusting thing I’ve ever done in politics. It doesn’t even make the top ten.”

 

Lee was surprised to discover that he’d stopped breathing until Tory left. “My gods, does she put felt on her shoes or something? How does she keep sneaking up on us like that?”

 

“I don’t know,” Tom said, in complete and unadulterated solidarity with Lee for the first time that day. “And the way she’s _everywhere_, just pops out whenever we have something for her to take care of…”

 

Lee said, “It’s almost as if there were cop—”

 

Tom said at the same time, “You’d think she had clo—”

 

Lee and Tom looked at each other, and their jokes about multiple Torys simultaneously died on their lips. They both thought better of it, considering the truly terrifying possibility that there might very well be dozens upon dozens of Torys out there in the universe on a baseship somewhere, plotting world domination and figuring out how to best keep track of their progress on a spreadsheet as they click away on Cylon PDAs.

 

[  
 ](http://kappamaki33.livejournal.com/22587.html)

 


	6. Religion (Kara and Romo)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crack. Starbuck's magic Viper needle leads the Fleet to modern-day Earth. And the Colonials thought learning to live with the Cylons was hard...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, this is exactly what you think it is. It may not be the most creative chapter, but I couldn't help myself. Some familiarity with the original 1970s BSG series is necessary to catch a few of the jokes in the series, though you definitely don't have to know it well--I've never actually seen a whole episode myself. Special thanks to [](http://safenthecity.livejournal.com/profile)[**safenthecity**](http://safenthecity.livejournal.com/) for letting me steal her brilliant Cylon paternity episode of _Maury_ for Chapters 2 and 12. (Original is [here](http://community.livejournal.com/gaeta_squee/329762.html?thread=2692898#t2692898).)

Back in Vancouver, Kara Thrace was having a much easier time dealing with her Cylon companion than Tom and Lee were with Tory. However, even though Sam was far too considerate and too large to sneak up on Kara in such a way that made her think there was more than one of him, that didn’t mean she was free from startling discoveries of her own.

Like most of the Colonials, Kara and Sam decided to stay near where they’d received such a warm initial welcome, so they immigrated to Canada. Their relationship was more than a little uneasy, not to mention ill-defined—the Canadian government was still trying to decide whether it would recognize a marriage between a robot and a dead woman—but they were working through their issues in the way that Kara and Sam worked through issues best: with plenty of booze and sex. If she was being honest with herself, Kara admitted, they really weren’t so much working _through_ any of their hang-ups, but they sure as hell were having a good time ignoring them.

Life in the condo the Canadian government and the GEECs had procured for Kara and Sam as temporary housing was just close enough to normal that the few unfamiliar things about Earth stood out in stark contrast, though Kara couldn’t say they really bothered her that much. But by far the most puzzling thing she encountered in her new condo was finding Romo Lampkin standing on its doorstep one morning.

“Good morning, Captain Thrace,” said Romo, who was wearing his sunglasses despite the overcast skies. They stood on the threshold for a long while, staring each other down. Romo smiled and broke the silence. “I hear it’s customary in this territory to invite friends into one’s home when they knock on your door.”

“We’re _friends_?” Kara groused, but she turned and walked down the entrance hall and didn’t object when Romo followed. She’d never admit to Romo that it was nice to see a familiar face, even if it was his. “And I’m not sure it’s Captain Thrace anymore—still haven’t gotten my billet.”

“No, I think it is,” said Romo, producing an envelope from under his jacket and holding it out. Kara grabbed it and ripped it open. “Met the mailman on the way in,” he added.

“Sure,” Kara mumbled as she read the letter, “couldn’t possibly be that you’ve graduated from picking pockets and moved on to mail theft, could it?”

“No, of course not,” Romo grinned. “I might need you as a character reference when I take the bar exam.”

Kara snorted. She set the letter down on the counter. “To save you the trouble of stealing it, the letter says there’s a place for Sam and me on the _Galactica_, if we still want it.”

Romo looked at her over his glasses again. “If you still want it?”

“I always said flying would suck once the war was over.” Kara shook her head, annoyed that she’d let Romo sidetrack her and suck her in to talking about herself. How did he always do that so easily? “What the hell are you doing here, anyway?”

“Making contacts with potential clients.”

Kara frowned. Not that it was that unreasonable of a guess, all things considered, but it still pissed Kara off that everybody seemed to assume that divorce might be in her and Sam’s near future.

“Don’t know what you’re doing here, then,” said Kara. “Sam’s out right now. You could ask him if he needs a release form written up for players in his new Pyramid league. Other than that, ‘fraid we don’t have any business for you.”

Romo quirked a grin that made Kara very uncomfortable. “I’ll remember that. But actually, I came here with something else in mind. I think we should discuss it over drinks.”

“Okay…I think. When?”

“Now.”

Kara’s brow furrowed. “At ten in the morning?”

“Has that ever stopped you before? Never has me.”

Kara nodded in concession and headed toward the liquor cabinet.

“No, no, not like that,” said Romo. “Grab your jacket. I’m taking you out.”

Kara was surprised at how few blocks she had to pester Romo with demands to know where they were going before he opened a door and ushered her inside a building.

She stopped just inside the doorway, taking in the sight the best she could.

Kara had been many things in her life: special, the chosen instrument of both the Gods plural and God singular, dead, and the harbinger of death, at least according to a crazy chick in a glowing bathtub who was usually right about that sort of thing. But none of that had prepared her for this.

People with profound longing in their eyes streamed from the street and into this odd temple. All approached something that was almost like an altar, covered in strange, shining silver relics. Several muttered a muffled prayer of “thank God” when they were handed the Eucharist, and as they tipped it to their lips, she could see the peace wash over their faces. And the cult icon…one great, bold religious icon was emblazoned on almost every surface, even on the vessels of this—bizarre to her but obviously holy to the Earthlings—sacrament. The very air was thick with religious fervor and devotion, and also, cinnamon.

There was only one rational conclusion to draw: Earth had a Cult of Starbuck.

And apparently, its sacraments all involved coffee.

“Come on, Starbuck. Don’t block the door, or someone in need of a caffeine fix will likely run you over,” Romo said, guiding the still-dumbstruck Kara over to the cash register. “Ah, sir,” Romo called to a man behind the counter.

“Hey, Romo, my man! What can I get ya?”

“I’ll have a grande extra hot soy with extra foam, split shot with a half squirt of sugar-free vanilla and a half squirt of sugar-free cinnamon in a venti cup—and fill up the room with extra whipped cream while you’re at it.”

Kara swiveled her head and stared at Romo as if he’d started speaking in tongues. Romo either didn’t notice or, more likely, chose to ignore her expression.

As the kid behind the counter worked frantically, Romo whispered to Kara, “I’ve heard that ordering a drink with more than two adjectives sort of calls my masculinity into question, but I can’t help it. The entertainment factor of seeing these kids try to remember all that rubbish makes the risk worthwhile.”

“And for you, Miss?” the barista asked.

Kara stood for a long time trying to form words. Finally, she managed, “Coffee?”

The barista looked at her, equally confused. “Yes, and…?”

“Black,” she said haltingly.

“Okay.” The barista shrugged and set to work again.

“So, Ted,” Romo said to the barista, “yesterday you were telling me about how ubiquitous this brand of…temple dedicated to caffeination is.”

“Huh? Oh yeah, they’re _everywhere_. Three hundred Starbucks locations in this city alone.” The barista expertly twirled a dollop of whipped cream on the top of one of the drinks, slapped lids on both, and then handed them to Romo with a little bow. “It’s gonna take over the world someday, man. Just you watch.”

Kara felt Romo shove the drink into her hand. She sipped it automatically, then realized why Romo had asked for so much odd crap in his; the coffee was better than the shit they’d made from algae in the Fleet, but not by much. She stared at the insignia on the cup. “Frak, first the harbinger of death, and now I’m a frakking _mermaid_…”

Romo looked at her over his glasses and smiled. “So, should we sue them for commercial appropriation of your name and celebrity identity, or try to get an endorsement deal?”


	7. Visual Arts (Gaeta and Hoshi)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crack. Starbuck's magic Viper needle leads the Fleet to modern-day Earth. And the Colonials thought learning to live with the Cylons was hard...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This may be my favorite chapter. Because the reference is a little obscure for anyone who hasn't seen the original BSG (I only ran across it by clicking the wrong page on the BSG wiki), here's a bad pic of the [uniforms](http://en.battlestarwiki.org/wiki/Triad_\(TOS\)) the boys are talking about; for a good view, watch snippets from first ten minutes of "Murder on the Rising Star" on Hulu. Some familiarity with the original 1970s BSG series is necessary to catch a few of the jokes in the series, though you definitely don't have to know it well--I've never actually seen a whole episode myself. Special thanks to [](http://safenthecity.livejournal.com/profile)[**safenthecity**](http://safenthecity.livejournal.com/) for letting me steal her brilliant Cylon paternity episode of _Maury_ for Chapters 2 and 12. (Original is [here](http://community.livejournal.com/gaeta_squee/329762.html?thread=2692898#t2692898).)

  
In another part of town, Felix Gaeta and Louis Hoshi were having a slightly less dramatic identity crisis of their own.

“I can’t reach the popcorn,” Louis said as he lay on one end of the couch with the seatback reclined and the footrest up.

“Huh? Oh, here,” said Felix as he passed the bowl over his head, reluctant to move from his very comfortable television-viewing position lying lengthwise on the couch and using Louis’s stomach as a pillow. “I can’t believe it. We’re really not in it. It's called _Battlestar Galactica_, and yet we're not in it.  _Boxey’s_ in it, and we’re not.”

“Who’s Boxey?” Louis asked through a mouthful of popcorn.

“My point exactly.”

“Well we don’t _have_ to watch this DVD anymore,” said Louis. “We could—oh, ‘By your command!’ Drink!” Louis handed Felix his beer, grabbed his own, and both took a drink as men in impossibly shiny robot suits shuffled across the television screen. “As I was saying, we could switch…” Felix grumbled when Louis shifted his position in order to pick up another DVD box off the floor. The GEECs had supplied them with quite a collection, in the interest of helping ease the transition to Earth culture, of course. “I know I’m in this one. It says so in the blurb on the box, see?”

Felix took the box that Louis was dangling over his head. “Hmm, _Enterprise_…” He took a few moments to read. “Hah. Sorry, Louis, but apparently they made you into a Japanese woman. That’s Hoshi Sato in the picture, see?” Louis groaned and set the box aside. “What? I didn’t hear you complaining when you saw they changed Starbuck and Boomer into men on this show.” Felix winked at him.

The men in robot suits tromped across the screen again to receive further instructions from a shadowy figure. Felix and Louis recited “By your command” in unison with one of the robots and then tipped back their bottles again.

“Maybe we should feel lucky not to be included in this…this,” said Louis. “Though I do like their Tigh better than ours. He’s less—”

“Infuriating? Drunk? Cylon?” Felix offered. Then Felix pointed emphatically at the screen. “Look! There’s a doggit!”

“Daggit,” Louis corrected.

“Doggit, daggit, frak it—it’s two drinks.” They drank again.

By the time they got back to half-way paying attention, the white-haired man playing Adama was making an impassioned speech. “Well, they got the Admiral pretty accurate,” said Felix.

“Yeah, they did a decent job with both Adamas, really,” said Louis. “Though, and maybe it’s just me, or maybe it’s the drinking game, but doesn’t Apollo…_look_ familiar to you, too?”

Felix stared intently at the screen as the Apollo with fabulous hair had a heart-to-heart with his father. “Whoa. Now _that’s_ creepy.”

They lay in silence for quite some time, staring blankly at the dogfight footage that they’d seen repeated in the last three episodes.

“Why are we even doing this?” Louis finally asked.

Felix looked up at him, disappointed. “Hey, we both decided that we deserved to take a few weeks off before even thinking about reenlisting or finding new jobs. I thought you were enjoying our sleep, sex, and sci-fi holiday, even if the Earth TV shows about space are pretty horrible so far.”

Louis chuckled. “I am. Especially the first two parts.” He ruffled Felix’s curls and gave him a wicked grin. “I meant why are we putting ourselves through this show in particular, now that we know that its portrayal of Tigh is completely inaccurate insofar as this one’s sober and that it lacks the two people at the heart of the CIC? The GEECs gave us _so many_ sci-fi shows to watch…”

Felix smirked. “You know why.”

Louis nodded. “Because they might play what they call Triad in their underwear again.”

“Sam’s trying to get together a Pyramid league here. If he had the players wear those uniforms…well, they’d be guaranteed an audience, at least. Ooh, he said ‘felgercarb’! How many drinks did we say that one was?”

Louis sighed. “Yep, definitely a blessing we weren’t included in this show. Bottoms up!”


	8. Inter-Cultural Relations (Baltar)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crack. Starbuck's magic Viper needle leads the Fleet to modern-day Earth. And the Colonials thought learning to live with the Cylons was hard...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, Gaius. I was tempted to wait until I had all the remaining chapters ready to post, but I just couldn't any more. Just keep in mind that the pay-off to one of the bigger jokes in this chapter--and you likely won't even realize it's a joke until you see the pay-off--doesn't come until Chapter 12. Special thanks to [](http://safenthecity.livejournal.com/profile)[**safenthecity**](http://safenthecity.livejournal.com/) for letting me steal her brilliant Cylon paternity episode of _Maury_ for Chapters 2 and 12. (Original is [here](http://community.livejournal.com/gaeta_squee/329762.html?thread=2692898#t2692898).)

Felix and Louis weren’t the only Galacticans getting smashed that afternoon. On that same day, Gaius Baltar sat alone at the bar of a seedy hotel restaurant in Tallahassee, Florida. His participation in Dr. Devlin’s research project had been short-lived. It ended prematurely when he discovered what “linebacker for the Pittsburgh Steelers” meant when Dr. Devlin’s boyfriend, Vinny “The Icebox” Callahan, walked in on Gaius and Devlin in the middle of an “experiment” involving a fume hood, handcuffs, and chocolate mousse. Luckily, there’d been no permanent damage, and the bruise around Gaius’s eye was exiting the painful purple-and-blue stage and shifting into the unappealing but painless yellow-and-green phase.

With nothing to do or to tie him down, Gaius had wandered aimlessly for the past few weeks, spending his advance stipend and the cash gift the GEECs had given him on alcohol and hotel rooms of questionable health and safety code compliance to make his money stretch as long as possible, since there was no telling when he’d get more.

He had considered trying for a professorship at another university. He certainly could have found a position if he had been persistent enough, he was certain. But the first few deans Gaius had spoken to had questioned his credentials, saying they’d never heard Caprica University and would therefore need extra references from him. This had bruised Gaius’s ego so greatly that he hadn’t even bothered to explain that his prior employers and colleagues were unavailable due to nuclear holocaust; instead, he simply decided he wouldn’t deign to take a position from such charlatans, even if one was offered to him on a silver platter.

He had also thought about rejoining his cult, though they hadn’t parted on the best of terms. Back when he’d been secure in his position with Dr. Devlin, Gaius had gotten a little too drunk one night, called Paulla on a lark, and had been a teensy bit too open with her about his spiritual views in general and his opinion of his followers in particular. He couldn’t remember much for details, but he did distinctly recall the words “infidel,” “heathen whore,” and “unworthy to smite in the name of God,” and he was pretty sure he hadn’t been the one saying any of them.

The Church of the One True God had become even more successful on Earth than it had been in the Fleet. Thanks to Jeanne’s surprising marketing acumen and the fact that Paulla, it seemed, had just as much unwavering conviction and aggression in the boardroom as she did when smiting, the Church of the One True God had not only become a minor cultural phenomenon but a very profitable business entity. They had two TV shows. One, _A Really Long Journey of Faith: One True God 101,_ sometimes replayed recordings of Gaius’s old sermons but increasingly had Jeanne or Paulla preaching the word themselves to a live studio audience. They were doing an admirable job filling in the many blank spots in his theology that he hadn’t bothered with, Gaius admitted. The other program, _Arm Yourself!: Everything You Need to be a Soldier for the One True God,_ was fast becoming one of the top-rated programs on QVC, offering cultist-made icons, relics, and other divinely-inspired necessaries, such as the Make Your Own Home Altar Kit and the Holy Pipe of Heavenly Vengeance™, now available in copper, brass, and stainless steel.

Three days before, Gaius had swallowed his pride and called OTG, Inc., prepared to beg for a job as a speaker on _A Really Long Journey_ or even as a product model on _Arm Yourself!_ Thankfully they’d put him through to Jeanne instead of Paulla, but apparently word of his drunken phone call had gotten out, because she politely but very coolly thanked him for his interest before saying that unless he’d improved enough at his miraculous healings that he could perform them on cue, OTG, Inc. did not have any open positions suited to his talents.

Gaius had also considered moving to Vancouver. He’d heard from Leoben, whom he’d run into in Nashville, that the Canadian and British Columbian governments had been particularly supportive of alien immigrants. Leoben said they had set up special programs to place Colonials in rather upscale government-funded housing and help with job placement until the Colonials acclimated to their new environment. It sounded like a wonderful opportunity to Gaius, who was really becoming desperate, but he knew he didn’t dare cross the northern border. While they had been held in quarantine, Lieutenant Hoshi had taken Gaius aside and made it rather clear that he should select somewhere to live that was far, far away from Felix Gaeta—preferably the moon, but another country would have to do. For as big of a pushover as he was with Gaeta, Gaius quickly learned that Mr. Hoshi could be downright intimidating with anybody else.

Gaius sighed and sank down on his stool until his nose was nearly even with the lip of the bar. This eye line gave him an even better view of how empty his glass was.

“Barkeep,” Gaius called, “I’ll have another of whatever this is, with an extra shot of whatever it is that makes it alcoholic.”

When the bartender took his glass, Gaius looked down the bar and noticed for the first time that there were two very pretty young women sitting at the other end. They were whispering and tittering to one another, idly swirling the straws in their colorful fruity drinks.

“My gods, I must be sick,” Gaius muttered to himself rather loudly. “I’m too depressed to even hit on them.” He let his head fall to the bar with a _thump._

He didn’t even sit up when the bartender brought him his drink, but he did lift his head when he felt light fingers on his shoulder.

“ ‘Scuse me,” said one of the women he’d seen earlier. Now they were standing on either side of him. Gaius sat up and straightened his shirt. “My friend and I were wondering: where’re you from?”

“Pardon?”

The girls giggled again. “You’re a foreigner, right?” the one on the right, the redhead, said, cocking her head provocatively and running her hand down Gaius’s arm. “Like, you’re English?”

Gaius wanted nothing more at that moment than to be English, whatever exactly it was, because the way she said it, it sounded to him like it must be a synonym for “about to get laid.” “Well, I am very, very far away from home…”

“Gawd, Candy, you _insulted_ him,” said the brunette, rolling her eyes at her friend. “They call themselves _British_, ‘cause we won the Revolutionary War.”

Though Gaius didn’t know much about Earth history, even he was pretty sure the brunette had some of the details wrong. He didn’t understand why he was such a magnet for not-so-bright human women and yet also managed to attract extremely intelligent Cylons and men with equally little effort, but he couldn’t say he much cared. He was just happy the magnetism still worked on Earth.

The redhead gave her friend a scathing look, but she rolled with the brunette’s comment well. She pretended to look guilty, sticking out her lower lip. “Aw, I’m sorry. It’s just that your accent is so sexy, I got all flustered.”

“My accent? Really?” That surprised Gaius. Yes, women had told him his accent made him sound intelligent before, but never sexy. Some Capricans had even thought he must have a speech impediment, since his Caprican accent sounded so little like that of everyone else from Caprica. But really, for a poor kid from Aerilon, he’d done quite well at mimicking it closely enough to get by, Gaius thought.

“Oh yeah,” purred the brunette, snuggling up closer to Gaius and not-so-subtly rubbing her breast against his arm. Gaius took a sip of his drink to keep from smiling like a giddy idiot. Subtlety was vastly overrated. “All the really hot actors have British accents. Daniel Craig, Colin Farrell—”

“Orlando Bloom, Hugh Jackman,” added Candy the redhead.

“Antonio Banderas,” said the brunette. Candy gave her a funny look, but she didn’t say anything.

“Look, I am, like, _so_ incredibly sorry for saying English instead of British earlier,” said Candy. “Is there _anything_ Becky Ann and I can do to make it up to you?”

Becky Ann had removed the festive little paper umbrella from Gaius’s drink and was sliding her tongue along the toothpick portion in a way that made him shiver.

Gaius played along. “Hmm,” he pretended to ponder. “I am just as ignorant of your local customs as you are of mine. I would _love_ to have a bit of a cultural exchange. You know, share some of my country’s…practices….see some of the local sights from an insider’s perspective,” he said, unabashedly speaking to Candy’s breasts so she’d catch the hint. “And I am so very lonely, being so far from…uh, British-lon…”

“We should start by making sure you know how to use everything in an American hotel room. I bet they don’t have coin-operated vibrating beds in England, do they?” Candy said.

Gaius was amazed she could keep a straight face. He was also quite surprised and a little startled by Becky Ann’s strength as she nearly lifted him off the barstool and pointed him toward the exit. He had just enough time to realize that Becky Ann rather reminded him of Paulla and to wonder if that was a good or a bad thing before Candy completely distracted him by slipping her hand into his back pocket.

“Just to let you know, the airline lost our luggage, so we don’t have any pajamas,” Becky Ann said as they made their way out of the bar. She took one of Gaius’s arms, and Candy took the other.

“Now in America, we’re all about everybody being equal, so it’s only fair you don’t wear your pajamas, either,” added Candy.

Gaius couldn’t help it. He tipped his head back and muttered gleefully, “The One True God bless America.”

On to Chapter 9: Literature (Roslin and Adama) Coming Soon...&lt;!--&lt;endljcut&gt;\--&gt;&lt;!--&lt;/endljcut&gt;\--&gt;


	9. Literature (Roslin and Adama)

Back in a woodsy area not too far from Vancouver, Bill and Laura were having a perhaps less exciting afternoon than Gaius was, but no less enjoyable, nor any less free of intoxicating substances.

“I’m back with the stuff you sent me out for!” Bill called out when he entered their ‘cabin.’ Though the Colonials lacked the resources for pensions, Laura had very savvily negotiated retirement plans for all Colonial military and government personnel as part of the technology-for-asylum deal with the Earthlings. Considering how much revenue Colonial and Cylon jump drives were going to generate for the Earthlings, the four-bedroom, two-and-a-half bath lake home that the Earthlings had thrown in for the former Admiral and President to sweeten the pot was really the least they could do.

“Excellent. I’m on the sun porch,” Laura yelled back.

Bill made his way to the back of the house with his two paper sacks. His breath still pleasantly caught in his throat every time he saw Laura’s short red hair glint in the sunlight (cancer free, six months and counting!), but he flinched when he saw what was sitting on her lap.

She saw the flinch and rolled her eyes at it, like she always did. “Honestly, Bill. It’s just a laptop.”

“But it’s _networked_,” Bill said with a shiver.

Laura looked over her glasses at him. “Look. If the Ones, Fours, and Fives arrive and manage to break into and control the Earthlings’ Internet, this world is so interconnected that my little wireless router is not going to make a damned bit of difference.”

Bill shrugged in defeat. On a logical level, he knew Laura was right. Still. That didn’t stop him from having nightmares about the refrigerator gaining sentience and shooting him with its automatic ice cube maker. He really should’ve gone to Attempted Murder Mondays while in quarantine, too, but he’d been too busy with negotiations to partake in a lot of the counseling sessions.

“What are you up to?” he asked.

“Oh, I was wrapping up an e-mail to Lee, giving him advice on how to deal with a particularly troublesome U.N. delegate.”

“Airlock?” Bill said jokingly.

“Impractical on Earth,” Laura said, and Bill really couldn’t tell whether she was joking back or not. “I told him to sic Tory on her.”

Bill nodded. “Essentially the same result.”

“Also, I’ve been reading on Wikipedia about how Earth had a Pythia, too.” Laura adjusted her glasses and scrolled through an article on her computer screen. “It says the Earthlings suspect Pythia was high on fumes emanating from a crevasse near her temple, since in modern times the area makes goats act like they’re stoned. I wonder if ours was high when she prophesied, too. It would explain a lot.”

“Speaking of being high,” Bill said, holding up the two paper sacks.

Laura gasped in pleasure. “You got _two_?”

“No,” he said, pulling one bag back toward his body but handing the other to Laura. “This other one is a special surprise. That one is...exactly what the doctor ordered. Or used to be ordering before your prescription ran out.”

She opened the bag carefully and peeked inside. “Oh, it’s a beauty. It does look a lot like the ones on New Caprica, just like your...friend said. There’s space for it in our, uh...garden supply room, right?”

Bill didn’t know why they talked in code about their...horticulture at home with each other, but they’d been doing it for so long it felt unnatural not to use euphemisms. “I saved it some prime real estate right under one of the heat lamps.”

Laura smiled and handed the bag back to him. “What’s in the other bag, then?”

“Another treat,” Bill said, settling down on the couch beside her. “Since we finally made it through my book collection, I thought it was time we found some Earth books to add to the shelf.”

Laura shut her laptop and smiled, interested.

Bill continued, “I got this book because I thought it might help us understand Earth culture better. It’s—”

“The _Kama Sutra_?” Laura guessed before Bill could finish. Off his look of confusion, Laura added, “Sorry. Researching Earth mythology on Wikipedia led to some...interesting links.”

Bill wondered to himself if that was a subtle hint that he needed to spice things up in the bedroom and added both the _Kama Sutra_ and _The Joy of Sex_ to his mental shopping list. “No, I got Childhood’s End. I thought maybe if we read it, we might understand what that strange scientist who worked with Dr. Baltar was talking about with all the psychological duct tape crap.” Laura reached for the remaining bag, but Bill pulled it back from her fingertips. “But I need to warn you first. I made a...startling discovery at the bookstore today. You ready?” he asked seriously.

Laura nodded and watched. He fished in the bag and pulled the book out slowly. Laura gasped.

“_Corners?_” Laura stared in slack-jawed amazement. “Their books have _corners_?”

“I know,” Bill said, his expression only marginally more composed, and that was only because he’d already had his moment of shock at the bookstore. “_All_ of them were like this, Laura. Every single book in the store. It’s...unnatural.”

Laura gingerly took the book from Bill’s hand and examined it, turning it over slowly. “Someone might even hurt themselves with these things,” she said, running her thumb over a pointy corner. “I suppose it does make some sense, from a manufacturing standpoint.” She paused for a moment. “Where do you suppose the corners on _our_ books went?”

Bill shrugged. He’d never thought about that before. It was amazing, how life on Earth was making him think about things he never would’ve questioned on the Colonies. Very horizon-broadening.

“That sounds like the kind of question best contemplated with the help of our home-grown...herbs,” he said.

Laura hummed in agreement. “Why don’t you grab us a—oh, hell, we don’t have a euphemism for ‘blunt,’ so just grab one for us to share while we start in on this bizarre-looking book?”

Bill dropped a kiss on Laura’s temple. “Sounds like a perfect afternoon on Earth to me.”


	10. Athletics (Sam, Cottle, and Ishay, featuring the Voice of Leoben)

Cottle might not have been having as strange a day as reading _Childhood’s End_ while stoned silly might’ve made for, but he definitely had the worst headache of them all. Well, not counting Sam. Sam held a cold compress to his head as he sat in one of the exam rooms in Doc Cottle’s new office in a Vancouver suburb. Though Cottle had been offered jobs at various hospitals, he’d struck out on his own. He liked being in charge and not having to worry about how pissing anyone off might affect his job security. Plus, that psychological duct tape crap hadn’t transferred over perfectly in the medical realm. All the names were off just a little, making it hard to communicate and collaborate with Earth doctors. Morpha was morphine, pneumona was pneumonia, forceps were—well, that one was okay, but he was too old to be forced to relearn those kinds of things, godsdamn it.

Ishay, however, chose not to share such well thought-out reasons for his private practice when patients asked.

“It’s because no hospital would let him smoke indoors,” Ishay explained to Sam as she removed the blood pressure cuff from his arm.

“Is not,” Cottle grumbled, waiting for her to get out of the way so he could stitch Sam’s head wound up. “One of these days, Ishay, pow! Right over the moon.”

“Huh?” Sam asked.

Ishay shook her head. “It’s a reference to some ancient Earth TV show he’s obsessed with. Just ignore him. That’s what I do.”

As Ishay filled out Sam’s chart, she started to hum, then sing under her breath. “_I see the universe, I see the patterns! I see the foreshadowing that precedes ev’ry moment of ev’ry day. Da da da doo da da day-ay-ay…_”

Sam winced. “Uh, not to be rude, but…”

“_To see the face of God is to know madness, baby. But His face ain’t nothin’, compared to you—_”

Cottle barked, “For frak’s sake, Ishay, show a little sensitivity to the patient, will you?”

Ishay stood bolt upright and glared at Cottle. “_You’re_ telling _me_ to be sensitive? What the hell did I—” Then she caught Sam’s eye again. “Oh. Songs by Kara Thrace and Her Special Destiny would be a bit of a sore spot for you, wouldn’t they?”

Sam shrugged. “I try not to hold grudges, but the voice of the crazy Cylon who locked my wife up for months on New Caprica being all over every country station and him being hailed as the next Bob Dylan? Yeah, that’s still a sore spot.”

“Sorry about that,” Ishay said.

“S’okay,” Sam replied. “Lampkin thinks Kara’ll make even more in the settlement for her appropriation of celebrity identity claim against Leoben than she will against that coffee company.”

“Well, if you guys will end up getting a cut of the profits, then I won’t feel so guilty about buying his CD.” As she left, she added, “Good to see you again, Sam. Doctor, be nice.”

“_We’re all just salmon in the stream, baby. Gonna swim our lives away_,” Cottle mumble-sang to himself after Ishay left. Then he caught himself. “Sorry. So, why don’t you give me the background on this nice little gash on your forehead?”

Sam perked up, despite the pounding in his head. And his knee. And his shoulder, for that matter. Honestly, he appeared to be one big sore spot at the moment, with bruises of all different colors and ages blossoming on his arms and legs, even though he was just there to get the big cut on his head taken care of. Even so, Sam got really excited at the chance to tell someone about his latest venture. “I started a Pyramid league.”

“Did you now?”

“Yeah! Even before all this psychological duct tape stuff, I had never imagined that Earth would have civilization but not Pyramid. They just go hand in hand. It’s like not having something as basic as…as language, or weapons, or peanut butter.”

“Peanut butter?” Cottle repeated. “Exactly how hard did you get hit in the head?”

“Pretty hard,” Sam admitted. “Anyway, the GEECs have this program where they’re trying to encourage Colonial culture to take root and grow on Earth. They gave me a grant to start up a Pyramid league. Someday, we’re going to be global, but for right now, I’m focusing on Vancouver.”

“Makes sense,” Cottle said. “Lots of Colonials settled in this area.”

“I got a lot of the old gang to join.” Sam started ticking off names on his fingers. “Kara, of course, Athena and Helo when they’re planetside, Racetrack, Skulls, Narcho, Seelix, Hotdog—I even got a few of the old bridge bunnies.”

“Really?” Cottle said, more to keep Sam busy talking while he finished reading his file than out of actual curiosity.

“Yeah, and they’re surprisingly good. Dee may be small, but she’s really quick, and Hoshi—man, Hoshi has a scary competitive streak. He may look like a pushover, but when he’s on the court, that man is out for blood.”

“Hoshi’s a Pyramid player?” Cottle raised an eyebrow at that, now a little more intrigued.

“Yeah, surprised me too, but Dee told me I should go over to his and Gaeta’s apartment and ask. After the two of them stopped laughing and looking at me funny and muttering something about uniforms in the ‘70s version, whatever that means, Hoshi said yes, and Gaeta signed up to do stats.”

“So did Wild Man Hoshi give you this interesting collection of scrapes, bumps, and bruises?” Cottle said, closing the folder and looking up at Anders.

“No.” Anders shifted on the exam table, looking a bit embarrassed. “I got ‘em from recruiting.”

Cottle pulled back and made a face. “What?”

Sam sighed, like he’d told this story a few too many times before. “The GEECs gave me this grant to spread Colonial culture on Earth, so part of the deal is I need to get _Earthlings_ interested in Pyramid, too. So, I figured the best place to start would be with Earthlings who like to play Earth sports.”

Cottle’s frown deepened. “Okay, so you gave a few talks at some amateur sports clubs. That still doesn’t explain—”

Sam shook his head. “Nah, I wanted to take a more hands-on approach. Figured the best way to connect with Earth sports fans was to make it a cultural _exchange_, you know? So I joined every Earth sports club I could find, figuring if I showed interest in them, their players would be more likely to try out my program.

“The first sport I tried was basketball, where I got this big bruise on my shoulder. Let’s just say that the term ‘jump ball’ doesn’t exactly mean what it sounds like it does, and leave it at that.”

He lifted his shirt a little. “And then I got this rash on my abs from sliding into third base.”

Cottle drew back from Sam, a shocked expression on his face. “Okay, I’ve heard of getting rashes from ‘third base,’ but how did you get it _there_?”

Sam looked at him equally oddly for a moment, and then it clicked. “Oh, you’ve talked to Hotdog recently, haven’t you? Yeah, not the same kind of third base that he slid into. This one was an actual base surrounded by sand, not a sexual metaphor.”

Apparently eager to get the Hotdog-related image out of his head, Sam quickly continued, “And of course, since this is Canada, I tried hockey, too.” He pointed to the particularly nasty bruise above his knee. “There was no miscommunication on that one. One of the players just decided to haul off and hit me with his stick. It’s amazing how mild-mannered these Canadians are in everyday life, versus what they turn into on the ice. It’s like a country of Hoshis. I’m thinking maybe that’s where they get out all their anger, so they can be nice and polite the rest of the time.”

“So what sport is the gash I’m supposed to stitch up from?” Cottle said, pulling his tray with supplies for the stitches up next to Sam. “Rugby? American football? Boxing?”

Sam took a deep breath. “Curling.”

Cottle was about to put in the first stitch, but instead he stopped and looked Sam in the eye to make sure he wasn’t joking, or more severely concussed than he’d previously diagnosed. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but isn’t that the sport where people sweep ice with brooms?”

“Yes.”

“I’m failing to see how that could be a contact sport. Particularly contact to your forehead.”

Sam sighed. “It wasn’t so much the curling itself.” He grimaced. “They forgot to mention in our cultural adjustment classes that locker rooms apparently aren’t co-ed here.”

“Ah.”

“Yeah.”

Cottle shrugged and set to work on the stitches. He didn’t even realized he’d started absentmindedly humming Leoben’s biggest hit, “I’m God, He’s God, She’s God, and Hey, You’re God, Too!” until Sam heaved a big sigh. So much for his bedside manner, Cottle thought to himself, though he wasn’t particularly bothered. He figured even Sam would have to admit, the song was damn catchy.  



	11. Music (Athena, Helo, Hera, Tyrol, Boomer, Hotdog, Nicky)

Coming Soon!


	12. Travel (Caprica, D'Anna, Baltar)

Coming soon!


End file.
